The Birth of Ribera
It started with Bruiser Brody.
He found this little spot tucked away in Japan—nothing flashy, no big sign—just good people and good food. Brody walked in hungry one night and the owner served him up a huge plate of steak. Not only was it delicious, but the price was dirt cheap. Brody couldn’t believe it. A full plate of steak, cooked right, generous portions, and a quiet owner who didn’t ask for anything but a smile.
So the next time Brody was in town, he brought another wrestler with him. Then another. And another.
Word spread fast: “If you’re on tour in Japan and want to eat like a king on a shoestring, follow Brody.”
Soon the place became the go-to spot. The boys would pile in after shows—blood still drying, bags still in the van—just to sit elbow to elbow at that counter and eat their fill. Andre. Hansen. Snuka. Funk. They all came through. And every time, the owner greeted them with the same big portions and quiet hospitality.
The boys didn’t know the owner’s real name—but they kept seeing the name “Ribera” on the sign outside. So what did they do?
They just started calling him Ribera.
“Hey, we going to Ribera tonight?”
“Tell Ribera we need a table.”
That’s how legends are born.
It started with Bruiser Brody.
He found this little spot tucked away in Japan—nothing flashy, no big sign—just good people and good food. Brody walked in hungry one night and the owner served him up a huge plate of steak. Not only was it delicious, but the price was dirt cheap. Brody couldn’t believe it. A full plate of steak, cooked right, generous portions, and a quiet owner who didn’t ask for anything but a smile.
So the next time Brody was in town, he brought another wrestler with him. Then another. And another.
Word spread fast: “If you’re on tour in Japan and want to eat like a king on a shoestring, follow Brody.”
Soon the place became the go-to spot. The boys would pile in after shows—blood still drying, bags still in the van—just to sit elbow to elbow at that counter and eat their fill. Andre. Hansen. Snuka. Funk. They all came through. And every time, the owner greeted them with the same big portions and quiet hospitality.
The boys didn’t know the owner’s real name—but they kept seeing the name “Ribera” on the sign outside. So what did they do?
They just started calling him Ribera.
“Hey, we going to Ribera tonight?”
“Tell Ribera we need a table.”
That’s how legends are born.
